We ate thick boloney on white bread.
There was no place for hand washing
and what farmer cared anyhow?
Tobacco gum had to be scrubbed, hard.
She’d ask whose boy that was walking by
or had we heard about the Wheeler girl.
My legs never reached the floor.
That wood stool was too tall. I swung them,
tapping the support rods;
suppose I kept time to conversations
while the coca-cola clock clicked seconds
until the years stopped it hands.
“truth is in the details” and your voice is amazingly true. Whenever I drop in to read, your words make me feel something.
i feel like i was there.
i am in tobacco country.
excellent
Purple,
Thank you SO much.
Opoetoo,
It is good to hear from another resident of “tobacco country”. My front yard and my back yard both face a tobacco patch…and a cow lot but that’s a poem for another day:)